i'll never get used to it
by Asradiantasthesun
Summary: Some losses are too severe to cope with. ( You can bleed out of love, did you know that?)


**{What they don't know is your real advantage**

 **When you live for someone**

 **You're prepared to die**

 **I can do it for him**

 **I'll do it for him**

 **-** Steven Universe **}**

It's been raining for weeks now.

The perpetually clouded sky doesn't even make her angry anymore when she looks out of the window in the morning, nor does it make her let out a resigned huff of air as she reaches for an umbrella before leaving her flat. She got used to it, to the sound of raindrops splattering on the pavement and to the dampness that soaked in the materials of all of her jackets.

Hayate still hates it though; he wines and whimpers for her to take him on the walk, but when they're actually out, he just sits down and howls pathetically until she picks him up and comes back home. It takes hours to dry his thick, black fur and it drives both the dog and her nuts.

The oppressive sheet of heavy rain obscures to view of the street outside the office. People are not much more than shadowy silhouettes, hunched under the mushroom caps of their umbrellas. It's almost like the water washed down all of the colors, leaving only the shades of grey.

Rebecca sighs, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead on the cold, shiny surface of her desk. Underneath the table, Hayate curls around the legs of her chair and puts his small head on her left foot, as if he was seeking comfort, so she reaches down and scratches lightly behind one of his velvety ears.

It's been four weeks since Riza Hawkeye died.

And the rain just keeps on pouring, as if it is never going to stop.

* * *

 _I should've known better,_ thinks Jean as he's climbing up the stairs to the fourth floor of Cental's Headquarters. E _ven I should've known better than that._

This morning was shitty from the very beginning when he overslept and woke up late only to realize that during the night the ceiling of his apartment started to leak and that the way to the bathroom turned into a perilous, narrow path of a damp linoleum in-between small puddles of murky rainwater.

And then, when he managed to get dressed as quickly as possible and leave without breakfast, the muscle memory took over and before he knew, he found himself standing in front of the Southern entrance to the office; the one with the little terrace and the roof underneath it, the place where he used to go for a smoke much more times than he cared to count, making a stop during running errands or cutting extra five minutes to his lunch break.

It's the favorite place of all the smokers in the Headquarters; shaded and cool in the summer, dry and windless in the winter. The walls turned yellow from nicotine long ago and just standing there, Havoc can still smell the sweet, distinctive odor that he used to love.

Now it only makes him sick.

Climbing to yet another staircase, he is still trying to swallow the bile in his throat, but there are echoes in his ears, pictures in front of his eyes that he cannot get rid of.

The sound of a gunshot. Becky's scream. The red stains on the white material of automobile's seats. The smell of cigarette, the taste of nicotine on his tongue, everything spiraling out of control.

Jean barely makes it to the bathroom before he drops down on his knees and throws up.

* * *

The first thing that a soldier learns in Briggs is that the ice does not forgive.

One mistake, one moment of carelessness is all it sometimes takes to end up cold and stiff, buried under the deceptively soft cover of snow, lost until spring or even forever in the worst case. At the more fortunate occasion, you can find yourself lying flat on your back with a light concussion, tailbone and pride bruised and a reprimand from general Olivier Mira Armstrong chilling you more than the Northern wind.

Vato has learned that the hard way on his first week; he was on the balcony, trying to move as fast as he could on his seemingly never-ending icicle duty so as not to turn into a greying, middle-aged icicle himself. And when finally the bell rung, he rushed to the door, overjoyed-

And then there was a second of breathlessness, the moment when the gravity stopped working and he felt suspended in the air. His vision narrowed down; the wind died down and stop howling in his ears. For an infinitely long pause, his heart stopped beating.

Then, of course, he came into a close contact with the bitingly-freezing floor and was ordered to visit a medical wing where he met Lydia… so, one could say it was all for the best.

However, ever since he received that dreadful phone call a month ago, Vato has been wondering if this sickening, uneasy feeling of not finding the sold ground underneath his feet will ever end or if it's a new permanent fixture in his life.

The Central is horrible, terrible, not good. It's raining all the time and Vato doesn't really know what to do with himself; the days are too short and the nights are too long. He spends his time quietly organizing bureaucracy of Fuhrer's office and daydreaming about Lydia and Daisy. Daisy, his little Northern flower; Lydia barely managed to push her out before she was shouting: "Daisy! Name her Daisy!". And this name fit her like a glove, this bright girl with her mother's periwinkle eyes and her father's frown looking so funny on her baby face.

His heart is torn in two parts and each wants something else, and Lydia can't understand that no matter how many times she assures him to take his time in Central during their too-brief and too-short phone conversations.

He aches for her, his aches for Daisy and he aches for Briggs that he somehow learned how to respect and to love. But he also has a family here, at Central, the one that is hurting and needs him.

So Vato helps it in the only way he can; by making himself useful, by being there in case anyone needs him instead of fleeing, no matter how much he yearns to do so.

* * *

The press is a pack of hungry vultures attacking even the tiniest scrap of information that they find and Breda is going to do everything in his power to stop them from swallowing Boss whole. He thanks heavens, for the first time ever, for his appetite and the round figure resulting from it; he cuts such an imposing pose during interviews and rarely any of those scrawny wolves dares to cross him.

Until, of course, one does.

"Why the President-Elect hasn't appeared in public ever since Inauguration?" shouts one of the reporters so loudly, that the rest of them fall quiet, shocked at the shamelessness of the question. He is so young - just a boy really, probably right after university. He still has a traces of acne on his cheeks and long, messy hair. Heymans thinks he's probably feeling very scandalous and important right now: " How is his mental health? "

And Breda's blood boils.

You stupid fucking idiot, he saw his wife fucking dying in his arms, and you want him to act like nothing happened? Are you out of your fucking mind?

But he forces himself to remain calm. It would help no one, Roy especially if he burst out like that.

"The President-Elect is currently under his family's-" supervision "- care. He is recovering from the dramatic events that took place during the Inauguration. He accepts all the consolations and asks everyone to respect his privacy during this difficult time."

But the kid hasn't got his scoop yet, so he pushes on.

" Is it true that he tried to commit suicide out of grief? Is he being under the psychiatric care? We have a right to know about his condition, as the citizens of Amestris! "

And now, he has the whole attention of the room. And Breda wants nothing more than to just close this circus and have a drink or two, but he knows damn well that if he ends the press conference now, without answering, all of the fucking newspapers in Amestris will "wonder about the mental health of President-Elect" in tomorrow's morning editions.

So Breda does what he's been doing for a month now; he takes a deep breath and carries on.

" President-Elect is grieving, Mister. He needs time to cope with this unexpected and devastating tragedy, especially given the terrible circumstances of it. However, the whole President Bureau assures all of the citizens that he will be soon ready to continue with his daily duties. That's the end of questions, thank you, ladies and gentlemen."

As he walks out of the room, he can hear reporters shouting some more questions toward him, but he doesn't care at all.

He needs some whiskey to wash off the taste of lies from his tongue.

* * *

Kain drops out of the Presidential Bureau exactly two weeks after the funeral.

He hands his resignation note to the pretty secretary who only nods in response, too preoccupied with answering the phone calls. They never stop, they never end; the sound of the phone ringing echoes on the corridors of the whole building. There are just too many question marks for people to stop asking.

Where's President? Is Inauguration going to be re-held at a different date? What now? What now?

What now.

If any of them even knew the answer to that question.

Kain bristles at the harshness of the public, but in some way, he thinks it's justified. That's a normal thing that people want to know where they're standing, how the situation looks like. Democracy is still something so new, tender and fresh that everybody feels they have to protect the institution more than personal interests of individuals. And that's a truth that makes all the sense, even if it sounds cruel; Roy should come back. He should come back and resume his duties and finish what they all started.

But Fuery knows he won't. They all do, Breda and Havoc and Falman and Rebecca. They tell each other lies to go through yet another day, feed each other false hope or don't say anything at all, but they are all burdened by this knowledge. First, there was shock and then pain and disbelief, but then came funeral and Fuery just cannot pretend he didn't see Roy during this funeral, cannot erase the expression on his face from his mind.

What Breda doesn't want to admit and what Havoc doesn't want to face and what Rebecca cannot handle is that; they can do damage control only for so long. And then it will all crumble and they will all fail eventually, and they will have to face the fact that Hawkeye died for nothing.

Hawkeye, who was strict, but just. Hawkeye, who always remembered everyone's birthdays and favorite kind of drink. Hawkeye who comforted him on his first day of work, who believed in them, loved them. Hawkeye, in whom the entirety of Team Mustang was in love with, one way or another.

Kain cannot bear to see it anymore, the empty space she used to occupy. Even the loyalty he feels for the rest of the group can't make him stay and watch as it all crumbles and falls around them.

And so, he hands his resignation note to the pretty, poor secretary who probably hasn't slept for weeks and leaves, leaves fast before he can change his mind and turn around.

* * *

He has learned to recognize his visitors by the way they walk.

For the first few days – weeks maybe, it's not that he cares to count – it was mostly Aunt, stomping heavily on the ground, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden floors. When she was coming, he just had to fix his sight on one spot and stare at it until she got so annoyed that she left him alone. It was an old technique that worked well during his childhood and still appeared to be successful. There was no use trying to pretend to be asleep – she could always see right through it – but shameless ignoring her still drove her nuts.

After she stopped appearing, his sister started to be the ones to bring him food, something to drink and little, white pills every day and it didn't take him long to learn their steps too.

Valerie barely makes any sound at all, Isabelle deliberately wears heavy boots to be louder, Celine always pads nervously, her soles making this weird squeaking sound. His favorite one is Adele, cause when she's coming, he can for a second or two, with this shocking easiness, pretend it's Riza - it's the same, well-known rhythm of steps, measured and orderly, and quiet still. Soldiers walk that she couldn't unlearn even when she was no longer a soldier but a politician's wife instead. She got used to everything else; the polite smiles and pastel dresses, the speeches and selling their privacy, but she was marching even in a pair of polished high heels just the way she once marched through the corridors of Eastern Command in military-issued boots.

With his eyes shut closed and focusing on the sound of Adele's steps, he can imagine that he is in their bed in the apartment near the Central Park. He can see the white sheets and Hayate's wiggling tail; a row of potted plants on the balcony, her books neatly put on the shelves and his papers carelessly thrown all around the room.

He can imagine Riza coming into the bedroom, a tray in her hands with two cups of tea on it. Still naked and a little pink after a shower, clad only in this pale blue robe he got her for their first month anniversary. Hair braided. A wedding ring on her finger.

He can almost smell the scent of her mint shampoo, can almost hear her saying "Good morning", can almost feel her lips on his cheek.

But of course the steps are not Riza's and it's not Riza putting the tray on his night table. It is not Riza giving him a glass of water and watching him with sad eyes as he takes the pills, one after another. It is not Riza that pats him gently on the shoulder before leaving. It is not Riza, because his wife is dead.

Riza is dead, dead, dead, gone, deceased, passed away; her brain splattered on the car's floor, her blood drenching the material of his pants, her eyes empty and lifeless as if they were made of glass. And every time he thinks about it, it feels like someone tore one of his lungs away and told him to breathe. It feels as if someone chopped one of his legs off and told him to run.

It feels like someone killed his best friend, his closest coworker, his most trusted advisor, his first lover, the love of his life, and told him to go on.

And he simply can't even comprehend how to do that. Doesn't even want to know how to do that.

There is his office, that they worked for so long and hard. There is a lot of things left to do, a country to run, citizens to protect, laws to pass, future awaiting. He knows that people must be wondering why he doesn't appear publicly. He knows sooner or later somebody will investigate the matter and learn to truth and then he will be removed from the position that was his goal for as long as he can remember.

He knows all of those things; he doesn't understand why people keep on telling him about them.

But Riza is dead. And the fire that has been burning for so long and so brightly in him is gone too, not even a trace of smoke left.

As long as he is here, in the apartment above Aunt Chris' bar and listening to Adele's steps becoming louder and louder as she's coming closer to his room- as long as he stays here, he can play pretend. He can still somehow bask in the glow of the absent flame, instead of freezing to the bone.

He can convince himself, if only for a moment that she is still coming back to him.

And this is the only thing that matters to him now.

.

.

.

.

.

There is a corkboard in the kitchen that they slowly fill with pictures, and while there are many happy memories captured there, Ed doesn't particularly enjoy looking through them. Mostly because, inevitably, his eyes keep on coming back to the only one among them that he absolutely hates.

Winry cut it out of the newspaper a couple of years ago, although it seems like a lifetime away now; it's black and white, and a bit blurry, with edges uneven ( Win was never the most pedantic person while holding a pair of scissors, especially if excited). And what pisses him most about it, is that he doesn't even need to look at it to know all too well what it depicts.

He remembers the scene captured on it perfectly. He has been there, hell, he's even present on the picture - at the very corner of it and barely visible, but still. Even now, he can feel the itch of his then-new suit. He recalls the shade of Winry's blue dress as clearly as if she was standing right in front of him. She had her hair twisted in some fancy updo that got more and messier as the night progressed. It was summer and the air smelled of dry soil and peonies and champagne.

Ed remembers all the details, the important and the unnecessary ones; the people, the sun, the flowers. The gunshots and white petals falling down like snowflakes. The sound of a violin, the laughter. And still, he often spends long hours sitting by the kitchen table late at night, drowning one glass of moonshine after another and staring at this goddamned magazine cut-out.

The scene captured by the sweaty Central News reporter fills him to the brim with the bittersweet sadness and burns him more than the alcohol. He looks at the faces, at the smiles, at the dresses and gala uniforms. When the picture was printed in the newspaper, there was a title above it "Congratulations!" – Whole Amestris" and he can't stop playing it on repeat in his head, over and over again, until it's really late and Winry quietly comes downstairs and asks him to please, come to bed, with this small, tired voice. He obliges, of course he does; climbs to their bedroom and hold his wife close, his ear pressed to her chest.

But still.

He describes the picture to himself as if he was a first-grader, breaks the scene into tiny fragments which are easier to digest than the whole scene. It was taken at a party, in an oval ballroom decorated with pearl ribbons, peonies, and pink roses, although the colors are not captured. The crowd blends all of the individuals together; people dancing, people laughing, people drinking champagne, all dressed to the nines. And in the very center of the crowd, like on the last page of a fairytale, Mustang twirls Hawkeye underneath a grand chandelier. He holds her hand and extends the other towards her, itching to have her back in her arms; the hem of modest white dress swirls around her bare calves; her elegant hat is a little crooked and she was laughing when the photographer snapped the picture.

And Ed has a theory, the one that he doesn't share with anyone, not even Winry, although he suspects she subconsciously knows it.

Maybe, just maybe, he stares at this wedding photo so stubbornly, against reason and better judgment, because that's how he wants to remember Riza.

Happy.

Carefree.

Finally allowed to be in love. Radiant in her wedding dress, young as the dawn and Mustang looking at her as if she was the sun.

Seeing her during this wedding – seeing them together was like staring at the clouded sky for the whole life and then finally, one day, looking out of the window and be blinded by the clear sky. Edward considers himself lucky enough to know a thing or two about being in love and loving other people in general, but he suspects he's not even close to understanding the bond these two had. He cannot imagine living a life they lived together, yearning so desperately for each other, but forever separated, with their connection thrown into their face time and time again. Until a day came when the dam broke and all this love spilled out.

Ed has known Riza Hawkeye happy and sad, concerned and desperate, frustrated and afraid, playful and enthusiastic. He has learned her story, been comported and disciplined by her. She was probably the closest thing to a mother he had after his own had died. But before that wedding he had never, ever seen her like this, he hadn't been even aware she could look like that.

Ed wants to burn this vision of Hawkeye in his mind for forever, to capture it underneath his eyelids until it's the only thing he sees. He holds on to the Mustangs' wedding desperately, with his knuckles white, just to replace another scene, the whole montage of them; Presidential Parade, cruel July sun, the torn pearl necklace and crimson stains on the cream seats of the shiny cabriolet, the taste joy in his mouth turning into acid. That god-awful, heart-wrenching gunshot followed by a scream, her name sobbed and cried and whispered and echoing in his ears. The rain pouring down during the funeral, the image of Havoc and Riza's friend Rebecca sobbing in each other's arms openly, Mustang's empty, numb stare, which was somehow infinitely worse than if he was crying – he was just standing there, looking like death itself, like he was the one whom they should bury. Or maybe they did. Maybe that's the price Roy and Riza paid for all this love and all this connection through all those years; you couldn't kill one without killing another.

Ed tries and tries but he cannot change it - blood and gore stick to his memories, staining them permanently, like the smudges of rogue on a wedding dress.

* * *

They are simple people and theirs is a very simple story, as simple as stories of great love and great tragedy can be. There are a lot of different faces and different roles and different circumstances that appear throughout its run, but at its core, it all comes down to just this;

A boy steps out of the train; a man steps onto the train. A girl welcomes him; a woman sends him away.

A girl presses her lips to boy's cheek in her father's library, late at night and the boy kisses her back.

A woman and a man meet each other once more on the battlefield and when the war ends, against all odds, flowers bloom on the rubble again.

And then there are years, so many years of being side by side, working together so tightly interconnected that their respective thoughts and actions stop being separate anymore, and everything he does influence her and everything she does influence him, and they are codependent to the point no one comes even close to understanding.

Here's how the story starts; there is a boy and there is a girl, and there is a dream bigger than them both.

Riza thinks there is nothing more bitter, nothing crueler than this; to see the whole journey and then not have a seat to the grand finale. To earn one's happy ending and then have it torn from their hands. To see how his fingers brush the sky and never get to witness him touching it.

But she has fulfilled her promise, there's that, that's something she can find solace in. Whether she was wearing a gun and a uniform, or smiles and pearls and cocktail dresses - she has followed him, two steps behind and all the way down, as long as she could.

Here's how the story ends; she is loyal until the very end.

They drive through the crowded streets and wave, out in the open in the representative cabriolet. And as she turns to look at another side of lane, there is an unmistakable gleam of metal of a gun in the corner of her eye and her bodyguard instinct kick in before her brain can even start to analyze the situation; she pushes Roy down from his seat, covering his body with hers, there is a whirlwind of colors and sounds -

And that's all that she remembers because this is when it ends for her.

That's all she remembers, because the last thing she gets to see is the sun in her eyes and the last thing she hears is Roy screaming her name at the top of his lungs, and the last thing she thinks is-

This is really a simple thing, to did what she just did. It was the easiest act in her whole life


End file.
